


Spaces In Between

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Basically random one shots in which the batfamily aren't fighting crime or being angsty (well, a little bit of angst). Just being a family.





	1. All In Love Is Fair (But You Don't Care)

**Author's Note:**

> drabble prompt from tumblr - "Dick is watching Damian. Damian wants to spar, Dick wants to snuggle."

“Pick a weapon.”

“The power of love.”

“Grayson, don’t be vulgar.”

“Don’t take money–”

“Stop it.”

“Don’t take fame, don’t need no credit card to ride this train.”

“Would you please cease this dribble and pick a weapon?”

“I dunno, Damian. When Bruce called me over, I really wasn’t expecting to spar.”

“So you’re lazy.”

Dick sent his wayward baby brother a withering look. “I’m not even going to answer that. Let’s just take a day off, okay?”

“No, not okay. You’re here and thus I am expecting you to fight.”

Dick stuck a tongue in his cheek and surveyed the area. “Okay, how about this: one spar, winner chooses what we do today.”

Damian halted, looking up at the man. “That would be…acceptable,” he replied stiffly.

Dick nodded. He took a couple steps toward the main music speakers.  
“If you put on that Ghostbusters theme, I will strangle you.”

Dick whistled. “Wow, next you’ll be trashing A-Ha. All right then, you come and choose.”

Damian set down his staff and meandered over, small feet padding against the floor. He squinted his electric blue eyes, dark lashes crowding his vision. His cheeks were flushed, dark hair ruffled like down feathers. Dick smothered a laugh. Damian looked like a suspicious cherub, at present.

The boy quirked his head, gazing at the ipod list. “You obviously have no grasp of music,” he commented, not unkindly. “Have you ever taken musical theory? I’ll be happy to–”

Two arms sailed through the air, one jabbing a pressure point and the other yanking Damian’s arms backward.

The boy exhaled through his nose, collapsing on his knees. The young man tugged his human parcel back into his arms, snorting.

“I win,” Dick announced, holding the ten year old compact against his chest.

“You cheated,” Damian replied sullenly, lips curling into a pout, but he did not fight as Dick hopped up the stairs.

Dick shrugged, jostling the child. “The first rule of being an older brother: there are no rules.”

They entered the TV room, where Dick released his younger brother onto the couch with a plop.

Damian crawled over the cushions, feet pushing the errant and needless pillows out of the way. “Last week the first rule was ‘always save the cheese nibs,’” Damian protested.

Dick swiveled on his heel, looking at Damian under his messy brows. He shrugged. “It’s whatever I say are the rules,” he said through a grin.

“Unfair,” Damian groused.

“Tough.” A hand shot through the air and ruffled through the young boy’s hair.

“Now we get the whole day off, and I’ve decided I want to watch a movie.”

“ _Not_ Ghostbusters.”

“What is the wrong the classic? You know what, never mind. We’re watching Back to the Future.”

“You do so love to torture me.”

“Aw, kiddo, if I wanted to torture you I would do–this!”

A yelp, a grunt, a chuckle, and Damian was limp against Dick’s vice-like grip.

“You only get to do this because you’re bigger,” came the smothered petulance beneath Dick’s arms.

The movie started, music filling the room.

Dick tucked his chin upon the child’s head, eyes seeing far-off. “It won’t last long,” he agreed. “I need to be here now.” A moment of silence. His voice almost warbled, like cracked concrete. “It won’t last long.”

Damian paused. He shifted closer, ear against the young man’s chest.

Dick noticed. He tucked the child closer, legs wrapping around him.

They were silent, comfortable in the moment.


	2. Hide & Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble prompt from tumblr - "I wish you would write a drabble where Bruce corners a tiny ticklish Jason!"  
> Jason and Bruce participate in the childhood game. A feel-good drabble with little Jason Todd and a happy Bruce Wayne.  
> Will wonders ever cease.

The curtain was fluttering.

Jason wrinkled his nose, quirking his head. The curtain was a deep burgundy, looking like a bird about to take flight. Jason pursed his lips, imagining an avian whistle. Inching near the ledge, his teal eyes swept across the yard.

Wayne Manor was, in one word, large. It was large outside. It was large inside. Its circumference was large. Its world was large.

Jay wondered if the house, despite being so large, ever felt small.

He did, sometimes. When the moon peeked into his room, shedding white light over the window seat. When, at breakfast, Bruce looked across the table, his deep eyes peering over the morning paper. When Alfred raised an eyebrow each time Jason said something rather unseemly. When Dick came to visit.

The twelve year old shifted away from the window. The oak tree swung in the wind, branches poking his ribs.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Shhhh.”

He was poked soundly in the nose.

“Hey!”

“Jason?”

Aw, hell. Jason wiggled further away from the window, feet not making a sound.

“Jay?”

Snickers rose up his throat. The boy covered his mouth, eyes crinkling.

“Jason, I know you’re here. Come out.”

Jason resisted snorting. As if he would reveal himself.

The next moment his breath caught.

Bruce’s dark head appeared through the window, surveying the yard keenly. “Hmm,” he rumbled. Jason stilled and squinted, gazing at the man through crowded eyelashes.

Not much to report. But he did need to shave.

“I suppose not…” Bruce drawled, disappearing inside.

Jason clamped down on his tongue, cutting off a giggle. His fingers brushed the rough outside wall. Jason was not stupid. He knew that Bruce would find him, probably from the left window. The boy snorted quietly. Well, Bruce couldn’t find him if he moved. It was like that math problem. More likely to gain 2/3 of an advantage versus the 1/3 advantage of staying. Vos Savant and the like.

The twelve year old mentally counted to twenty, then crept over the windowsill.

Jason exhaled. So far, so go–

“Gotcha!”

“Oof!”

A tussle and suddenly Jason’s feet were swinging above the floor.

“Okay, okay, you win,” the boy admitted, squirming out of the man’s grasp. “All’s fair in love and war, yadda yadda. Congrats, boss.”

Bruce raised a brow. “What a fine catch,” he mused. “Although…” He turned, walking away from the hiding spot. “I did expect a different sort of fish.”

“Ah, geez,” Jason muttered. “Don’t tell me you’ve got an allegory for this.”

A side of the man’s lips crept up. “Not at all.”

Jason’s eyes widened. “Hey, what’s the big id–”

Suddenly Bruce’s hands were upon him and Jason uttered an ear-splitting shriek of laughter. His boyish giggles bounced off the walls, and Bruce’s deep chuckles joined them.

“Hey, wait!” Jason gasped, breathless. “No,” another bout of giggles, “fair.” He sent a mean side-eye to his foster father, but the man returned the favor with more tickling. Jason wiggled, writhing in Bruce’s hold. “No no!” he protested, body heaving with laughter. His dark hair flopped onto his eyes. “St–o–p,” he rasped, hanging limp and falling to the floor like a rag-doll.

Bruce crouched beside him, eyes crinkled in amusement.

“You,” Jason told him between breaths, smiling despite himself, “have got it coming, buster.”

“Have I, Jay?”

“‘Course. Just wait until I get up. You’ve got something coming. Something…big.”

Bruce stood, ignoring Jason’s petulant “Hey!” He brushed the lint off of his jacket. “I look forward to it, son.”

Jason grinned. “You better run, big guy.”

“Seeing as you’re still on the ground, a head start would be remiss.”

“You ain’t even gonna help me up?”

Bruce tilted his head. “Of course,” he murmured. He knelt down.

A loud shout of laughter rang throughout the house.


	3. Rag-Night Gal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my rag-time gaaaal~  
> When Damian discovers some “interesting” information about his older sister's "night" life, both his father and the cat shan’t rest until the case is investigated.

“Baby brotheeer,” Black Bat sang, materializing behind him. Damian sent a half-hearted glare in her direction, but scooted over to appropriate room for the young woman. “I got you chocolate,” she said, handing over the ice cream cone. “Your favorite.”

“Your favorite, you mean.”

She waved her hand. Same thing.

Damian was not a child. He was Robin. He was a responsible vigilante.

And responsible vigilantes do not let ice cream melt.

He resolved that he truly must partake in this treat, and went about scarfing it down. “Did you get one?” he questioned his sister, licking the side of his cone.

Cassandra shook her head, propping her chin on her hands. “Lipstick,” she pointed out. “Chocolate will get it dirty.”

“Tt.”

She ruffled his hair. “Glad you like it. You need to smile.”

“I smile,” he replied. Cassandra smirked. “Stop. I DO smile.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “Ugh, just because I’m not tickled pink like that infernal Brown does not mean I am deprived of proper satisfaction.”

“My heels are pink. Pink’s a good color.”

“Pink’s a heinous color,” he shot back.

The woman in black shrugged. “Taste.” She stood up, stretching her legs like a cat. “On that note,” she said through a smile, shaking her hair off her face, “must leave. Dinner reservation.” She made a face. “Gets cold.”

Damian swung his legs absent-mindedly. “Have Father buy the restaurant.”

Cassandra shot a grapple hook. “Not a restaurant. Bye!” She swung away, lithe form twirling like a ballerina into the darkness.

Damian quickly finished the chocolate treat (he had to, on a hot night like this) and gazed over the city. He had already stopped two burglaries, three muggings, a drug transport, and a rather odd bar fight that included celery sticks as weapons. All in all, a quiet night. He sighed. A boring night. Maybe Colin—

Wait.

Not a restaurant?

Did that mean—

* * *

 

“Father!”

Damian burst into the study, startling Alfred the feline who hissed and proceeded to upset the desk ornaments. Bruce turned away from gazing out the window, jerking his coffee mug out of the way. This did not stop his legs from receiving broken metal and growling cat. Both victims of Damian’s shout gazed at him with the same waspish expression, but he paid no heed.  

The boy placed his hands upon his hips and intoned, “There is an urgent matter that I wish to discuss.”

Bruce placed the broken objects back upon his desk and retracted the cat’s claws from his thigh while his son chattered on.

“—Because I know that gaining help from Brown is impossible. Similar to the probability of you smiling.” Damian leaned against the desk. “Heaven knows when that will happen,” he mumbled huffily.

Bruce glared at his willful child. “I smile.” The boy was not impressed. “Stop. I DO smile.”

“Indeed. And I’m the cow-thieving Hermes.”

The man tipped his mug, murmuring, “Because _that_ would be suspicious.”

Damian didn’t even bother to look affronted; instead he crossed his arms and drawled, “You’re being sarcastic. While the bitter soul in me embraces it, my practical side must concede that this is not helping the problem.”

Bruce swallowed his coffee. “‘Bitter soul’ in you?” he parroted, stepping over Titus’ laying, sleeping, _drooling_ form to inspect his desk papers. “You’re not even twelve, Damian.”

His son would not be moved. “I’m a prodigy.”

The father sighed, choosing the newspaper and grasping it. “What is the problem?” he asked, settling into his chair and gazing over the headlines. Socks for $15.99? Now that was hinging on absurd.

“I’ve been telling you, Father. Human behavior is a constant evolutionary trend, brought on by checks, balances, rewards and consequences, a system of reaction, et cetera. It has come to my attention that humans—that is, a human—has been indulging in a set of different behavior patterns. Now,” he admitted, scuffing his sneaker toe into the wood, “psychology is an ever-changing science, gaining new hypotheses as we speak. However, there is the bane rule of human existence, and, thus, proper human behavior.”

A crinkle of paper. “I see,” rumbled the voice behind.

Damian took this as a sign to continue. “There is…” he wrinkled his nose, “a…romantic leaning within this individual. This is not to say that it exhibits unhealthy patterns. However, I believe that proper knowledge of this Romance Matter would benefit the participating and observing parties.”

“Roman parties, you say?”

Damian sighed. “You’re not listening,” he chided, trying not to be cross. He brightened. “I’m getting a tattoo. And moving to Metropolis. Whereupon I will open a pet shop full of venomous snakes.”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“Father!” He pounced and forcibly yanked the newspaper to lower. “This is a matter of grave importance! If you cannot invest the effort to investigate Cassandra’s nightly and house-visiting dinner beau, I shall be forced to seek aid elsewhere.”

Silence is thought to be a passive concept, but it burst into that study like New Year’s confetti.

The man—father of five—was…indisposed in shock. Damian took the time to steal a mini-scone, chewing while he waited out the paternal crisis.

Cassandra? His own sweet Cassandra with a…gentleman caller? With a gentlemen caller in her _house_? _For dinner_? _AT NIGHT_?

Bruce stared. “Repeat that.”

Damian was gazing at the headlines, little brow locked in consternation. “$15.99 for socks?” he muttered. “Absurd.”

“Damian.” Bruce rose, paper slipping to the floor. He grasped the boy and lifted him upon the desk, ignoring the squirming. It had been formerly established that, while Damian has insisted that he was too big to be treated like a potato sack, Bruce firmly countered that he would be small enough for quite some time, thank you (poor Tim would probably never outgrow the potato stage), yet this didn’t stop the boy from uttering a reticent “Tt.” Bruce lowered his posture, eyes searching the electric baby blues. “How do you know this?”

“Dinner reservations with no restaurant. Pink heels. And,” he raised his eyebrows, “lipstick.”

“Lipstick?” Bruce repeated, eyes narrowing.

“ _Sparkly_ lipstick,” Damian announced haughtily. “There’s more evidence, Father. I can pull up the file, if you like.”

Bruce was halfway to the cave before the boy blinked. Damian found himself tucked under his father’s arm and rolled his eyes.

He wriggled. “I can walk.”

His father set him down and began marching away once more. Damian followed closely behind and nearly plowed into the large man when he stopped suddenly.

“Father?”

Bruce’s eyes were closed, face drawn almost painfully. “This is…uncalled for,” he admitted.

Damian looked up at him then nodded slowly. “A little…invasive,” he agreed.

The man adjusted his cuffs. “What is it that Dick always says? ‘Good beekeepers mind their bees’ wax’?” he questioned no one in particular.

“Todd says it’s fuc—” Bruce snapped a look and Damian corrected, “very rude.”

Bruce rubbed his chin. “That it would seem.” The father and son identically placed their arms behind their back, hands clasped.

“So we’re in agreement, then.”

“Yes, Father.”

“There will be no investigating your sister’s romance matter.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And we most certainly will not, under any circumstances, pry.”

“Yes, Father.”

* * *

 

The fact that the pair of them were outside Cassandra’s apartment disguised as foliage with matching binoculars had absolutely nothing to do with the “gentlemen” caller.

It was a surprise security inspection.

Truly.


	4. The Suggestion Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce just wanted to get Tim's birthday gift. But anybody who's anybody knows that you can't escape Stephanie Brown's endearing qualities.

_Creeeaaak_.

Mascara-laden eyes peeked between the door.

Bruce started, “Did you–”

“Welcome, come on in, great to see you,” Stephanie responded dryly, opening her front door wide open.

He cleared his throat and stepped over the threshold. “Good afternoon.”

She closed the door with a click. “Hi. Welcome to Casa de la Steph, apartment extraordinaire.”

His cool blue eyes analyzed the small yet cozy apartment. “Very nice.”

A beat.

Stephanie sighed. “Go ahead, what do you want?”

Bruce had the decency to at least look a little apologetic. “Do you have the Geboorte Status Object ready?” he asked, standing up straight in the low alcove.

She hummed, gesturing him forward while cleaning up her TV room. 

“I was too busy babysitting your grumpy son.” 

He felt his brows arch in surprise.

“Damian?”

Stephanie snorted, rearranging the pillows. “Not that one, the other one.”  
She sat back and surveyed her work. “Thin, judgmental, name rhymes with Kim?”

He blinked. “Tim?”

“Bingo.” 

“He was here?”

“Just left, actually. But you already knew that.”

He resisted bristling. “But you do have the Geboorte Status Object?”

“You can just say surprise birthday gift.”

“That’s not it’s title.”

Stephanie resisted rolling her eyes. The men–sorry, _detectives_ –that she put up with in her life honed her finely-tuned patience. She waved her hand, muttering as she walked through the kitchen to the back rooms. “Fine. Would you like some coffee?” 

Bruce glared at the dusty purple counter. “No, thank you.”

“Good, because I only have orange juice.”

He twitched with the impulse to take his handkerchief to everything. “Then why did you offer?”

Her voice came from the hallway. “Because it was the adult thing to do!”

The man grunted, moving on to the dining area. Papers littered atop the table, scrawled with curly handwriting dotted with hearts. _**Wayne Enterprises Suggestion Box**_ wrapped across the top of each page. 

“‘Suggestion: donut cart,’” he read off. “'Suggestion: Fire Murray because he reads your mail and I know because _I_ read your mail and it’s already been opened.” Bruce cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. “Suggestion: Wizard Wednesdays, points awarded to each house at the end of the workday. Suggestion: Play Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" in the elevators to break up the monotony. Suggestion: Start a dance team for the people who dance in the elevator. Suggestion: Anyone who says the word “subpoenaed” is put in a ball pit of shame. Suggestion: don’t be such an _asshole_.’“

"Those are for Tim.”

The man turned around, the young woman peering over his shoulder with a cardboard box against her hip. 

Steph caught his eyes and smirked. “He opened a suggestion box. He promptly put his own suggestion in, which was a connecting slide to each floor, like Google.”

Bruce’s lips thinned.

“Don’t you dare say no!” Stephanie exclaimed, aghast a such a prospect. “That was the happiest I’ve seen him in weeks!” She placed the Geboorte Status Object in his arms. “Here. Although if you really want to make him happy, put an all-you-can-eat buffet in the lunch room.”

“Very well.” Bruce withdrew a pen and scrawled atop a suggestion paper.

“Awesome! Tim will love it.”

“And he’ll eat enough?”

“Yes sirree. I come in on Wednesdays when my class is off.”

“Off?”

“Hybrid class. I poke his cheek with straws until he eats. 96% effective rate.”


	5. Glue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted sleep, cheese hor d’oeuvres, and Mario Kart. You can’t say that Cass isn’t lively.

The bed was so warm. 

The pillow was so soft.

It felt like a fluffy nest. 

Jason fluttered in and out of consciousness, never truly asleep for long. But that was a lot better than normal. Normal was the heavy breathing, the locking and unlocking the doors and windows, the knocking of his mind sliding from one side to the other, switching from malignant to melancholy every couple minutes. He was exhausted. But in a good way. 

The city lights dappled over his bed spread, shedding a yellow glow upon the room. He sighed and settled against his pillow. Relaxed, finally. He was going to lay here until the morning.

_**BANG**_!

“Get up!”

Apparently not.

Jason shot up and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Whaaaaat.”

“Get up! Get up, boogerface! Get up!" 

Cassandra took to turning on the lights, ignoring her brother’s whimpers of pain. When she was satisfied (and Jason was curled in a defensive ball), she whipped around and threw her clutch upon the nightstand. She raised an eyebrow, cleared her throat, and intoned imperiously: "We must train." 

"Ack, ow, the fu–”

The young woman known as the Blackbat stomped her petite foot, and this was when Jason noticed she was in formal wear. He rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes and threw off the bed covers, snatching her clutch while snarking, “Train for what, snot bubble?” With a snap the clutch was opened, revealing several cheese hors d'oeuvres. “What the…?”

She yanked it out of his hands. “Not yours, nasty.”

“You’re nasty, this is gross.”

“THIS. IS. SNACKTIME.”

He reached over and shoved an hors d'oeuvre in his mouth, gagging a little at the cheese intake. Why did she like so much dairy? “What training?" 

Cass sighed, brushing stray hairs out of her face. "I…am losing.”

He began snickering very loudly until he choked on the hors d'oeuvre. “Losing what?” he questioned while he coughed the crumbs away, tears filling his eyes. 

“Chew slow, goober brain.” She slapped his back a little too hard. 

He shuddered. “Answer the question, butthead.” The six foot man meandered to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water while he tried to suppress his coughs. “What are you losing?”

His sister paced to and fro, worrying her hands. “I–” she cut herself off. Regaining the edge, she squared her shoulders and announced dramatically, “I am losing Mario Kart." 

Jason burst out laughing. 

"Not funny!” she screeched. “Not funny! Jason! Not funny!” She jumped upon his back like a spider monkey. “We must train! We must win!" 

"Ow! Your heels hurt, get off!" 

Cassandra dug her heels into his side. He tried to buck her off, but she crawled over and grasped his legs. Her brother shook side to side, knocking off her heinous death contraptions disguised as footwear. "Cass, let go!” He yanked at her ankles, but she held fast. Little bug was holding on so tight he was losing circulation in his legs. “Let go! Let go!”

“No!” she responded, upside down face squeezed from gravity. “Help! Train with me!”

“Let go!”

“No!" 

"Let go!”

“No!”

“Let go!”

“Noooooooooooo!”

“LET GO!" 

He tugged one last time. 

_Fatal_. 

With a swoop, Jason yanked at her ankles and fell backwards, head slamming into the floor (carpet, thank goodness). Cassandra was still latched onto his legs. He groaned in pain. She shifted and poked his cheek. 

"Chilly dogs.”

“Uggggghhhhhh.”

Another poke.

“I’ll let you use the blue shells on Dick." 

A smirk. 

"Deal, buttface." 

* * *

 

"This is BULL. CRAP!" 

Stephanie’s shriek echoed throughout Dick’s apartment, slipping out the windows and even into the youthful ears of children playing in the street. 

Cass and Jason wore identical smirks, eyes crinkled into malicious cat-eyed slits.

"That’s, hm…” Cass paused and placed a hand upon her chin in faux-wonder, “four wins for us?”  

Jason elbowed her, looking like a delightful scoundrel with his scruff. “Now, sis,” he admonished, “don’t be so modest. It was six.”

Cassandra preened. 

Tim seethed. “You’re no longer family,” he hissed. “I denounce you.”

Dick gasped. “Tim!”

Damian growled, “It’s true, Grayson. There are no ties here, only enemies.” He shot the duo a hateful glare. 

Dick shook his head, eyes glued to the screen. “Not true, not true,” he mumbled in a daze, clutching the controller and choosing the controls. “We are family. But just because we’re family doesn’t guarantee loyalty. AND WE CAN BEAT YOU TWO, JUST WAIT." 

"Challenge accepted,” Cassandra purred, clacking her nails against the plastic controller.

Dick met her gaze. “Rainbow Road,” he promised. Threatened. 

Cassandra giggled silently. Jason grinned like a feral animal. 

“So be it,” he whispered.


	6. Prodigals & Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt regarding bby Jason and his new family working with food~  
> In which Jason and Alfred survive Bruce and Dick's stalemate, blatant and unappreciated Biblical allusions occur, and Jason shares half of his dinner with Dick.  
> Well. Sorta.

Bruce and Dick were arguing.

Again.

Alfred swept a disapproving look upstairs before nodded to Jason. “You may as well eat, Master Jason. They won’t be done for a while.”

“I can wait,” Jason replied casually, shifting in his seat.

The peas glared at him.

Alfred glared as well.

“Your schedule does not permit waiting, sir,” the man replied coolly. “Please commence.”

The twelve year grasped the silverware and rolled some peas onto his plate, where more than half slipped and wetly plopped to the floor.

The remaining peas glared up at him.

He glared right back.

“Schedule.” That was a despicable word, at the present. Sure, it was wonderful at first. Food was always around, which was mind-boggling. Jay had gotten plenty of black eyes fighting over a piece of toast, and now received two fresh slices every morning. Sleep was assured, along with a bed AND a pillow. Those things didn’t come around for kids like him everyday, and were deeply appreciated.

What was not appreciated as much was the dreaded “schedule” which dictated when to eat and sleep for maximum malnourishment recovery.

It was difficult to relinquish control, especially with appointed hours of the day. Jason was used to hustling (as in, actually hustling. Street style, along with some picked pockets and jacked tires) and felt uncomfortable with, well, normalcy. He wasn’t some dumb kid, okay? He could fight his way out, and if not that, manipulate his way out.

And the cigarettes. Goddamn those cigarettes. He needed them, they didn’t understand. They were the last remnant of home he had. He could remember Mom smoking them on the fire escape, looking out into the city. (Plus he didn’t mind taking the edge off, and it helped with culling his appetite. But apparently that was the opposite goal they were going for.)

Jason plopped some mashed potatoes on his plate, which stayed most graciously.

Mashed potatoes. Now there’s a dependable food. Not at all slippery like peas. No sir, mashed potatoes stuck to its guns and faced dinner like a man. Er, like a root. Like a vegetable? What the hell was a potato, anyway?

The door upstairs was slammed, but it wasn’t followed by heavy stomping.

Jay chewed on the chicken. Ah, a stalemate. Now they were gifted with their passive aggressive presence throughout the meal.

Really brought up his appetite.

Dick slid through the dining room, jaw set. “Sorry I’m late, Alf,” he apologized, settling into a chair.

The man opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted when Bruce entered the room, gritting his teeth.

“All is well, Master Dick,” Alfred announced. “The greatest fear is that the food has become cold in the pair of your untimely absence.”

Bruce grumbled an apology.

The company was silent, save for the clinking of silverware.

Dick and Bruce wouldn’t look at each other. Jason considered kicking either one under the table, but dropped the idea when the chances of kicking Alfred were close.

“You interrupted a party,” he finally piped up. “We almost opened a bottle of champagne. I had to stop Alfie. You know what a party animal he is.”

“Indubitably, sir.” Alfred’s mustache twitched in amusement.

“But not to worry.” He nudged the chicken plate. “‘The prodigal son had returned, and they offered up the fatted calf,’” the boy misquoted.

Alfred cleared his throat and Jason sent him a mischievous smile.

Dick served himself some peas (which didn’t roll around on HIS plate. Traitors). “Who’s the older one here, and didn’t they kill the fatted calf?”

_SPLAT_!

A spoonful of mashed potatoes smashed against Dick’s face.

The remaining adults turned to look at Jason.

He shrugged. “My hand slipped.”


	7. Hold This Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "Tim + Bruce + favorite jacket, pretty please?"  
> Short drabble regarding Tim's style decisions and Bruce's thoughts on those decisions.

“Is that your jacket from five years ago?”

Tim looked up, fastening up his red sports jacket. “Yeah. Dunno why you have to say it like that, but yeah.”

Bruce’s lip twitched. “Tim,” he explained tiredly, exasperatedly, with far more fondness than he could hide, “It doesn’t have sleeves.”

The young man looked down, gazing at the tatters of an armhole. “Heh. The 90s. What a time.” 

What a time indeed. At least his son had ceased the globs of gel and hair spiking. (He had banned frosted tips before the boy even broached the subject.) 

Bruce sighed. “At least wear sleeves. It’s 25 degrees out.”

“Crampin’ my bitchin’ style, B.” 

“You have style?”

“That’s cold.” 

“Yes, and you will be if you don’t wear sleeves. You can borrow a shirt from your brothers.”

“Ugh, fine. But no flannel. I was never grunge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's lying, he has two Soundgarden albums in his car and a Nirvana T-shirt.


	8. It's Not Unusual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "Dick and Barbara + Dick's birthday + Haly's Circus"  
> In which Dick and Barbara discuss social media while celebrating Dick's birthday.  
> short and sweet~

“I cannot believe you denied my friend request.”

Barbara sipped on her soda and rolled her eyes before replying, “All you do is post the same picture of John Travolta every Wednesday.”

“That’s not true. Sometimes I post Tom Jones. Besides, I’m a curator. It’s modern art.”

“It’s total crap and I don’t want to see John Travolta every Wednesday.”

“Even with the added bonus of Tom Jones?”

“No, god. I don’t know what I’ll do if I hear ‘It’s Not Unusual’ one more time. I want to see your face, Dick.”

“That’s what snapchat is for.”

“You and Tim have ugly face competitions all the time. I want something nice.”

“You never post on snapchat, so you don’t get to complain.”

“I just added this birthday celebration to my story.”

“Oh.”

The circus music swung into the air, twirling above their heads like lazy fireworks. Dick sat back in his seat, gazing up at the tent. It pillowed out in sheets, like a welcoming blanket. He closed his eyes.

Home.

This would somehow always be home to a part of him, the part that still marveled and wondered.

Barbara gazed at him, raising a fair eyebrow. Reaching over, she swept his hair off his forehead.

The young man’s eyes opened and caught hers. They took hands and shared a smile.

The shadows of the performers lingered on below them in the stage lights.

Dick shuffled closer, wrapping an arm around the woman. “Here, say cheese,” he instructed, holding the phone out. The phone snapped a photo, and the image of the two of them smiled back. Dick tapped it into his story before resting his chin on Barbara’s shoulder.

She offered him the popcorn bag. “How do you like your birthday so far?”

He shrugged before replying with a smug smirk, “It’s not unusual…”

A kernel socked him right in the eye.

“Ow! Babs!”

“No Tom Jones. Did it hurt?”

“Yes!”

She pecked him a kiss on the forehead and then shoved his face away. “Good.”


	9. Brotherly Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "If you try to poke Tim's belly button he will FIGHT you"  
> In which Dick may be both the worst and best brother in the world, and knows exactly what he's doing.

"TIM!” A rustle, then a slap. “You pretzel WHORE!”

“Mmf.”

“I cannot believe you ate the last of my pretzels! I just bought them, why!”

“I’ll buy you another bag, Steph.”

“You always say that but you never pay up, little rich boy.”

“Oh my god, I’ll grab my wallet and we’ll go to the grocery store right now. Happy?”

“I don’t see you walking."

Tim shook his head, mumbling, “Only child” and “spoiled” and “doesn’t share well.”

“Hey!” Stephanie shrieked at his retreating figure. “It’s not ‘sharing’ when you are an unrepentant whore, you stupid–”

“Trouble, Brown?”

Stephanie whirled around and transfixed her gaze on Damian. “Oh. You.”

“I do tend to be me, yes,” came the dry reply.

She waved off his sarcasm. “You always want to fight Tim, right? Well, here’s your opportunity. Go get ‘em, kid. Smack him down a couple layers.”

“…Is this a trap?”

“Who cares? You have my full approval. Poke him in his belly-button. He’ll fight you.”

Damian quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t believe--Grayson.”

Dick stopped his ascent up the stairs, slowly jogging down. “Yeah?”

“Brown has decided to embark on reverse psychology on me, although her brain is smaller than a pea shell–”

“Hey! You–”

“–so I require a second opinion.”

Dick sighed a sigh only a tired older brother could sigh, lifting his eyes up to heaven for strength. “Okay,” he replied, still looking at the ceiling. “Shoot.”

“Will poking Drake in the stomach–”

“Belly-button–”

“–Provoke a hostile reaction?”

Dick cast a wary glance at the two. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but don’t. Tim is really sensitive there. He flops over, it’s like his Achilles heel.”

Damian’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting,” he murmured softly. “Very interesting.”

“Damian,” the oldest brother groaned, “please. I’m asking you. Your dad wouldn’t want you do to anything.”

Damian scoffed. “I am not a moron, thank you, Grayson. And I’d thank you to stay out of my affairs.”

With that haughty what-for, Damian set off in Tim’s direction.

Stephanie swiveled to look at the man. “Okay, what gives?” she demanded after a moment. “Tim is a craaazy spider monkey if anyone touches his belly-button, why’d you say that? And what was that whole thing with Bruce?”

Dick shrugged, taking her hand and drawing her up the stairs out of the entryway. “Better get out of the way. I knew if Damian thought that his dad wouldn’t be pleased, he’d be sure to do it. Besides,” he flipped his black hair out of his eyes. “That little bugger ate the last box of my favorite cereal, so he has it coming.”

An angry howl echoed throughout the house, followed by an ear-splitting crash of glass.

“I’m not getting my pretzels, am I.”

A thump of wood, and then the piano screeched through the entryway and crashed against the wall.

“Nope.”


	10. Beach Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "alcohol and Dick make a funny mix"  
> Short drabble that is only silly dialogue between brothers.

“You ate fifty bananas?”

“Yeah.”

“You are such bullshit.”

“I am not bullshit! I’m not–Jason, listen to me–listen, Jason–JASON–”

“Get your lips away from my ear, Dick, I can hear you.”

“It was puréed bananas with scotch.”

“Is that why you smell disgusting?”

“Wooow. Listen, ‘have a beer underage child’, I did in fact, have an alcoholic beverage.”

“Sure you didn’t bathe in it?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you! The puréed bananas!”

“I swear to–”

“Grab me some kiwis.”

“Why?”

“Kiwi-vodka sauce scrub, the bartender recommended.”

“And you believed it?”

“Her skin was really soft, you weren’t there. Here, she put some on my arm. Feel.”

“…It is really soft.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…So how many kiwis does this take?”


	11. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damian has the...oddly innocent habits of a child assassin, and cares very little for socks.

“It’s hot.”

“You were just complaining that you felt cold,” Bruce grunts, wrestling his child into a T-shirt.

Damian wriggles out of his hold and kneels beside Titus, playfully tugging the chew toy in his mouth. “That was before. This is now. Now it’s hot. It is clear logic, Father. I do not see the problem.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he replies shortly, turning on his heel and stepping over the bundle of child and dog on the floor. “But while you’re down there, look under the furniture for your socks.”

“That infernal Brown says that house elves take them. I did not know that we employed house elves. Though that may explain how Pennyworth gets so much done. How much do we pay them?”

“We do not have house elves. Look for your socks.”

He receives no reply, but steps outside the room anyway. Bruce groans but cannot help smirking. Too hot, is it?

Not twenty minutes later his son comes storming in his study, scowl etched deep.

“Let me guess,” Bruce drawls, “too cold?”

Damian pointedly doesn’t respond and simply sits beside the man, maneuvering his large arms over the his small, frigid body.

Bruce smirks in earnest now, drawing the boy closer.

There is not a sound in the study for several long minutes, save for the sound of the crackling fire.

“Iknu whar ma socks er,” finally comes the muffled sound.

Bruce raises a brow. “What was that?”

Damian removes his face from his father’s side, nose red from the cold. “I know where my socks are,” he explains with a hint of exasperation.

“Hmm?”

“Alfred takes them.”

“ _Alfred_ takes your socks?” Bruce asks incredulously.

“Not Pennyworth, the cat.”

“Ah. I see.”

Damian tucks his knees to his chin and shivers, and Bruce plucks his business suit jacket up from the ottoman and wraps the little boy in it. “Better?” he questions, gazing down at the child drowning in the wide-set shoulders.

Damian nods, eyes set on the fire. “Better.”

Bruce brushes his hand through the dark hair and Damian lets his head drop on his father’s arm.

Next time, Bruce thinks with amusement, we’ll work on finding those missing tuxedo pants. He has no doubt that they are “missing” for a reason. Damian has skipped out on the latest parties due to the predicament.

The boy yawns beside him.

Yes, Bruce thinks, next time. He puts an arm around his kid. But not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that Talia wasn’t big on the whole “clothes” rule. The necessities to defend oneself? Yes. Pants? Maybe not.
> 
> Of course, Alfred just says under no uncertain terms that “trousers shall be worn at all times in the household.”
> 
> Win some, lose some.


	12. It's A Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr request: Damian and Tim trapped somewhere waiting for rescue while Damian's hurt--post Damian's death. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Damian…Damian, no!”

Tim shoots off after him, fingers reaching and curling around the boy’s shoulders like claws. He opens his mouth to speak, but glances down at his little brother’s face.

It’s pale. And he’s sweating. His lips are turning blue, and Tim doesn’t realize that he’s been talking until Damian snaps, “We have to!”

Tim casts a glance at the ground. Oh. A chick.

“She kicked it out of the nest,” he muses, trying to steer the boy away.

Damian yanks himself out of Tim’s grasp. “No!” he shouts, kneeling down in the mud. “It fell out. It’s too windy for it. It needs help!”

“Dames,” Tim sighs, keeping an eye on the makeshift tourniquet. Why isn’t Bruce here yet? Why won’t he come? “Sometimes nature just works that way.”

“I know how nature works,” Damian spits. His eyes blink, zoning out for a moment. Loss of blood. Tim reaches out to him again, but Damian jumps up and skirts his arms. “No!“

“Damian!” Tim finally snaps. “You have two stab wounds, a broken arm, and I highly suspect a concussion. I know you hate me but for the love of God, do what I say and sit down!”

Damian’s face goes blank. He shakes his head. Tim opens his mouth to rip him a new one, really lay on the guilt, but then. Damian’s lip trembles. Tim’s anger doesn’t melt away, but the tension in his shoulders rolls down to the pit of his stomach. Shit.

“It needs its mother,” Damian insists, whispering hoarsely. He blinks several times in rapid succession. The wind picks up and Damian kneels next to the chick, protecting it from the sudden raindrops. “It’s too little. It needs its mother.”

“She may not take him back,” Tim reminds him morosely, kneeling down across from him. He monitors the boy’s stab wounds. They’re bleeding again.

Damian swallows. “It’s too little,” he insists again. “It needs someone to take care of it.”

“Maybe it will survive. Animals generally do well with independence–”

“No!” The shriek echoes in the clearing. Tim’s head snaps up, startled. “It’s too little! It needs its mama! It needs help!“   
Damian’s voice is tight. His teeth are clenched. He’s shaking with repressed emotion. The raindrops in his eyelashes trickle down and–

Oh.

_Oh_.

"It’s too little,” Damian croaks. “It’s too little."

Tim swallows, head feeling swollen and warm. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking at Damian’s large eyes. “Too little.”

Tim scoops up the baby bird and deposits it in his lap. He takes off his gloves and wraps them around it. He hands the creature off to his little brother, who sags in relief.

"C'mere,” he gestures, dragging the boy closer. He puts his arms around him, trying to dispel the shaking. “It may still die,” he reminds him, ever the realist.

Damian wiggles against his chest. Tim is surprised at how comfortably he fits there. “It won’t,” he assures him, sounding positive at his own control in life that the universe would not dare cross him.

“Okay,” Tim breathes out. He figures he’ll believe him. His fingers are freezing. “Are you warm?”

“Mm.”

Tim wraps his coat around the kid’s front anyway. He flexes his stiff fingers in realization. Tim is not a good older brother. He knows this. It wasn’t in the job description. But it’s funny, how little things can connect and mean something. Because sometimes being an older brother meant being cold. And sometimes being cold so your little brother could shiver less meant…well, everything.

“You don’t believe in God.”

“Huh?”

Damian shifts. "You can’t say ‘for the love of God’ because you don’t believe in God.“

The rain is pattering on the grass. Lightning flashes in the sky silently.

"Oh. Habit, I guess. Your dad says it.”

Damian doesn’t reply for a moment. He’s gazing down at the chick, who seems to have fallen asleep, safe in both boys’ hands.

“Tt.”

The top of Damian’s head is wet. Tim rests his chin on it anyway.


	13. In the Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: Steph and Jason cooking together-- for Alfred.

“If you think I’m going to go out and buy more nutmeg, this spatula is going straight down your throat.”

“Just hold onto the damn eggs– _shi_ –don’t crack ‘em!”

“I handle my eggs perfectly, stop henpicking.”

“You added dry ingredients to the wet instead of the other way around, forgive me if I think your cooking skills are absolute bull.”

“That spatula is looking real good right now.”


	14. Counterspace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: damian keeps hanging out at steph's house so she's buying vegetarian food for him

“Here I got that bean thing you like.”

“For the last time, tahini does not come from beans!”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Steph shot back. “How does zucchini pasta sound?”

“Disgusting.”

“Squash pasta it is!”

“I’m not gluten-intolerant, Brown.”

“No, but I need to sneak vegetables into Tim’s diet anyways.” Her voice grew hazier as she stuck her head under the cupboard.

“Pathetic,” Damian muttered.

“Resourceful!”

A splat, and two aprons appeared on the counter. “Now hop to it, sous chef!”

“Why would I ever help you?” Damian asked, even as he tied the apron around his waist.

Stephanie’s eyes crinkled as she took in the sight. “It’s too big for you,” she said in a undertone, like it was some secret delight.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Brown! The question!”

“Because I invited the entire family to dinner,” she replied, lugging a huge cookbook out from above the stove.

“Why would you do that?” demanded Damian, jumping up on the counter. Alfred never let him sit on the counter, but Stephanie didn’t seem to mind.

“It seemed like the adult thing to do,” she said wisely.

Damian sighed.


	15. Nutella & Decisions

Cassandra spooned a large amount out of the nutella jar. She eyed it appreciatively. She opened her mouth to take a bite when–

_SLAM_!

The nutella flopped over the spoon, falling onto the kitchen counter with a despondent _splat_!

“Your brother,” Stephanie announced, voice rising until it was a screech, “is STUPID!”

“Well, yeah,” Cassandra replied, keenly looking down at the glob of nutella. There were many factors to this next course of action. People she had to consider. Alfred, mainly. But Alfred wasn’t here so… She shrugged.

“You don’t even know which one I’m talking about!”

“Does it matter?” Cass asked, mouth full.

Stephanie entered the kitchen, wrestling her canary yellow scarf in a fit of passion. “Exactly! They’re all stupid! All those Wayne boys! Every single last one of them–stupid! No offense,” she tacked on, finally removing the scarf.

“None taken,” muffled.

“I just can’t believe the audacity, the daring, the sheer…STUPIDITY!”

“Mmf.”

“I mean does he ever think that MAYBE I have a shred of intelligence myself? I should wring his neck the next time I see him, just as a favor for humanity, and WHY are you licking the counter?”

“Hnnghk.”


	16. Tidbit

“Nice,” Cass admonished, sending her a side-eye.

“Nice? I am being nice!” Stephanie exclaimed, wildly flinging her arms outward. “I haven’t even mentioned how his tie clashes with his shoes!”

Bruce cast a tepid look down his body, brow furrowing. “It doesn’t,” he said.

“No,” Steph agreed, “but I saw the doubt flicker in your eyes and that made me feel powerful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brevity is the soul of wit


	17. Middle Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: How do you think bruce would react if damian told his father that he wants his middle name to be thomas like his grandfather's name?

“What about Jacob?” Bruce asks, adjusting his cuff links.

Damian scowls into the mirror. “‘He who grasps the heel’?” he questions archly, unveiling the name’s meaning. “My rivalry with Drake is not that deep, Father.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Tt. On second thought, Jacob is acceptable. He steals the birthright. I find that an ideal model.”

Bruce leans down and straightens the boy’s tie. “No to Jacob, then.”

“I shall still steal the birthright.”

“There is no birthright to steal.”

“Quite right, because it’s mine now.”

“You cannot steal what does not exist.”

“Capitalism would not agree.”

“You’re not a capitalist.”

“But you’re an American, and thus a capitalist. Ergo, I am a budding capitalist.”

“Last week you were a socialist.”

“The vacation time was appealing. To be frank, Father, I am an opportunist.”

“Frank, huh. How does Franklin sound?”

A distasteful look.

* * *

 

“Don’t wander off,” Bruce warns. He’s on a business trip to London, and Damian was brought along after Tim had expressed a thinly-veiled threat of disembowelment.

“I won’t,” the boy replies, attempting but too engrossed in the sights to be sulky.

“What do you think of William?” Bruce muses.

“Hn.”

“George?”

“Tt.”

“Henry?”

No reply.

Bruce turns around. Damian is several feet back, young eyes cast with light from a window front.

“I said,” a hand shoots out and collars the distracted son, “don’t wander off.”

“I wasn’t!” They move quickly through the streets, and several Londoners’ ears ring with, “Fath-ER, I’m not a baby! Stop holding onto my hand!”

* * *

  
“Leonard?” Damian repeats scornfully. “Are you trying to make me sound like a nerd?”

“Leonard means ‘lion-hearted,’ you imp,” the man replies. He reaches across the couch and grabs the child’s ankle.

Damian shouts, yanks it away, and scrambles out of reach.

Bruce smirks. “Benjamin?”

Damian is sulking in his corner of the couch, ticklish ankles tucked under him. “No,” he announces sharply. “And I don’t want to hear any more.”

“Nikolos.”

“I already have a Greek name.”

“Perhaps I should take a cue from Jason and focus on fictional sources.”

“Father.”

“I dub thee Legolas.”

“No!”

“Damian Legolas Wayne.”

A pillow shoots out from the corner, knocking the tip of Bruce’s head. “You, young man,” said in deceptively soothing way, “should not have done that.”

Damian leaps off the couch and goes running, but despite the valiant attempt (and a great deal of noise) is caught. 

A yelp and Damian is upside down, being mercilessly tickled by his ankles. 

* * *

“Jasper,” Batman suggests. They’re on their way back from patrol. The car is humming peacefully, moon glimmering between the clouds. 

Robin is nodding away in the front seat, head low. Bruce smiles slightly at the sleepy child. He had not known how much he was missing, and he thanks God everyday that Damian came to be a part of his life.

Bruce reaches across the car and smooths back Damian’s inky hair. The boy blinks. “You can go to sleep.”

“Hngh. No.”

“Go on.”

“I’ll have to wake momentarily, it’s not worth it.” But this is slurred, and Damian’s eyes are already closing once more.

“Okay,” Bruce agrees, knowing full well that Damian will be asleep by the time they return to the cave. “Reza,” he comments thoughtfully. Arabic for Contentment. That would do. It linked Damian to his heritage, and expressed Bruce’s affection for his son.

The car turns a corner. Several minutes pass.

“Thomas,” a small voice murmurs.

Bruce’s heart stutters. “What’s that?” he replies gently, knowing but wanting to be sure.

Damian’s eyes are still closed, but his small mouth is firm. “Thomas.” Then, after a moment, a sleepy sigh: “After grandpapa.”

Bruce blinks under his mask.

The car pulls into the cave. The air is quiet and hushed. Bruce unstaples their seat belts, and leans over maneuver the child out of his. “I think,” he whispers, planting a kiss on the sleeping brow, “that’s perfect.”

And it is. He couldn’t have chosen better himself.

Bruce drafts the paper the next day, under the portrait of his parents.

On the document, the name scrolls across in thick black ink.

**Damian Thomas Wayne.**


	18. Learning How to Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce-as-a-young-almost-dad-but-more-like-older-brother-because-Alfred-is-in-charge-but-Alfred-is-trying-to-help-Bruce-adult-so-Bruce-attempts-to-parent-but-it-doesn’t-really-work

The dining room clock ticked.

Bruce cut his fish thoughtfully, purposely not looking over at Dick. Following an event (something silly regarding a party) on Tuesday, Dick had sworn not to speak to the man for as long as he lived. Bruce had scoffed at such a threat, but now it was Friday and Dickie, save for patrol, had not spoken a single word to him. 

Alfred met his eyes from across the room.

Right. Bruce sat back in his seat. Time to be an adult. He was an adult. He could do this.

“So…Dickie,” Bruce began, his tone warmer than usual. And false. He held back a wince. “How are…things?”

Silence.

Bruce blinked. Right. Okay. Trying again. “Any new…developments?” he asked. “With school? Friends?”

Dick couldn’t help it. He scoffed, but otherwise ignored him.

Bruce glanced over at Alfred but the man’s expression was blank. He turned back around to face Dick. “Is something…bothering you?”

Alfred cleared his throat.   
“I mean…it appears that something is bothering you. Talk about it.”

Alfred cleared his throat louder.  
“Let’s discuss how you’re feeling,” Bruce amended, irritation leaking into his tone. He waited.

Dick said nothing. He didn’t even jiggle his leg or tap his fingers on the table, speaking Morse code, which is what they’d done sometimes.

“Dickie.”

Silence.

“Dick?”

Nothing.

A sharp “ _Richard_.”

Dick picked up his fork and screeched it against the plate, over and over, a melody of misery.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?“   
Alfred’s throat clearing sounded like a tyrannosaurus at this point, but Bruce was too far gone.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you’re going to be immature then you can be immature all weekend. You’re grounded.”

Alfred didn’t try to clear his throat now; he knew a lost cause when he saw one.  
Dick looked up, slamming his fork down. But then Bruce was surprised because Dick didn’t get angry. “ _Nooo_ ,” he protested piteously, slumping off his seat. He slipped right off onto the floor, sitting under the dining room table. “No, Bruce, no,” his voice echoed from beneath the wood.

“Get out from under the table,” Bruce ordered, but Dick’s whines of “Nooo” continued. “Dickie, get out!”

Dick slammed a hand against the flat of the table. “No! I’m not doing anything wrong! I don’t have to listen to what you say!”

“The hell you don’t!”

“Ten year olds don’t have to listen to moronic twenty-five year olds!”

“The hell they don’t!”

“Sir,” Alfred interjected but it was too late. Bruce had shoved back his chair and was crawling under the table.

“Why are you being like this?!"

"Because you’re an asshole!”

“Don’t kick me!”

_Bang!_

Alfred sighed.

A painful grunt. “You little shit!”

“Alfred! He called me a shit again!”

“Don’t call on Alfred when you’re clearly in the wrong!”

Dick’s shriek of “WHAT?!” could be heard clear across the city. “I’M in the wrong?” he repeated, astonished. “You are the one who’s unreasonable!”

“How am I unreasonable?!”

“YOU WOULDN’T LET ME GO!”

A lull of silence.

“The party?” Bruce’s voice was incredulous. “That dinky school party? That’s what all this is about?"

"It was Lydia Brooks’ party and MY PARTIES AREN’T DINKY!”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me."

Another bang.

"Dickie!”

“Get out! Get away from me! I never want to see you again!"

"Don’t kick me!”

“YOU DESERVE TO BE KICKED! GET OUT!”

“This is my table!”

“OUT!”

“Fine! But you’re definitely grounded now!” Bruce withdrew from under the table as gracefully as he could. He flicked off imaginary lint and set back his shoulders, ignoring Dick’s plaintive protests.

“No, B, no,” Dick whined tearfully, crawling out from under the table and setting after him. He yanked on the man’s sleeve. “No, B, noo!”

Bruce tried to shake him but the kid had latched on tight. He narrowed his eyes and said sternly, “Dickie–”

“Noooooooooooooooo,” Dick moaned, sinking down like kid-putty and laying himself across Bruce’s feet.

"Get off.”

“Bruuuuuccce,” he whimpered, too full of woe to even consider it. “Bruce, no, whhhhyyyyyyy.”

“Because you’re a brat,” Bruce replied, struggling to retrieve his feet from the hostage situation.

“I’m noooot,” Dick objected, grabbing ahold of the man’s feet once he got them free. “I’m not, Bruce, you’re just mean."

That stopped Bruce. "I’m mean?” he asked, looking down on the limp protester. “Because I don’t make elementary school parties a priority for Alfred or myself?”

“I can go to parties by myself,” Dick proclaimed wetly, voice muffled as his face was pressed against Bruce’s slacks. “I’m ten, not two. I don’t even need a bodyguard. I just never get to do anything or go anywhere if you or Alfred don’t want to and I hate it.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Alfred’s call of “Master Bruce.” Bruce looked back, meeting Alfred’s eyes. Dick was still pitifully whining into his slacks, damn near heartbroken. 

Bruce turned around. His shoulders slumped. Right. Time to be an adult. He was an adult. He could do this.

Starting with some changes to the social calendar…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce says he's going to ground Dick but he's really just using the only leverage he has to get the kid to talk. He's still learning at this whole "parenting" thing.


	19. Teaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by tumblr comment

“I can cook a little.”

“I’m sure, sir.”

“I just don’t know how to do all the…all the fancy stuff, y'know?”

“Potatoes are not very hard, once you get used to them.”

“Yeah, I just got stuff from a box. I’ve never peeled–hold on.”

“Please do not cut off your thumb, sir.”

“I’ll be all right, Alf.”

“Even so, I would prefer not to have to explain to Master Bruce that his child put in my custody has lost a thumb.”

“They call me 9-Fingered Giuseppe.”

Alfred shoots him a look, but cannot hide a smile when Jason snorts.

Moments pass while they peel, the only sounds from the kitchen being the plunk of potato skin in the sink.

“…Does he really–y'know…” Jason lowers his head. “Never mind,” he mutters, heat dusting his cheeks.

Alfred looks down at the messy head. “Yes,” he replies after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

He does see you as his son, goes unsaid.

Jason smiles slightly, then yelps. “Ouch!”

“I warned you, Master Jason. Put it under the water and then put your hand above your head.”

Jason groans but follows instructions, holding his bleeding thumb above his head. Alfred goes to get a medkit and returns. There is a slight argument over hydrogen peroxide, but Jason’s thumb is bandaged soon enough.

“Can I still help?”

“May.”

“MAY I still help? I can peel with my other hand.”

“I could use the help with Thanksgiving this year. You may take the time to practice.”

“Thanksgiving? As in Thanksgiving Thanksgiving?”

“That would be the one, sir.”

“With a proper turkey and everything?”  
“Yes, Master Jason.”

“That’s nuts! Just like TV! And I get to help?”

“Indeed.”

“This is crazy! I’ve never even–yowch!”

“Perhaps now would be a good time to take a break, sir.”


	20. Baseball

Colin caught the ball in his mitt. “Why are we doing this?” he groused, freckled face sunburnt from the afternoon sun.

Damian picked up his bat. “Because my family is planning a baseball activity for Summer Solstice and I don’t know how to play.” He swung, practicing.

Colin crossed his arms. “So? Get them to teach you to play. They won’t mind Dames, honestly they won’t,” he told the boy, eyes wide in truth.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Colin. I’m not going to embarrass myself in front of my family, especially if it’s as something as foolish as baseball. Now,” he lifted the bat and took position, “throw it.”

Colin shrugged to the heavens. He brought his left arm back, twisted his shoulder, brought it forward, released and–

_Clang!_

The ball shot past and hit the chain link fence with astonishing speed.

Damian had missed.

Colin jogged up, yanking the ball from its trap in the fence. “You’ll hit the back of your head if you don’t maintain some control,” he told him easily.

“It’s not my fault,” Damian said irritably. “Cricket is nothing like this.”

“Have you played cricket before?” Colin asked with interest, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Yes, with decapitated heads.”

“Dames! Really?”

“ _No_ , Colin.”

Colin laughed loudly, noise filling out the small park diamond.

Damian allowed a small smile before replacing it with a grimace. “All right, all right, let us resume.”

“Fine,” the redhead replied with a smile. “But if you miss this one, we’re going to get milkshakes.”

Damian took a cue from his best friend and shrugged. “Very well,” he agreed.

The lowering sun produced a red glow over the field. Damian squinted his eyes, sweat trickling down his neck.

“You ready?” came the call from the pitcher’s mound.

“Just throw that forsaken ball.”

A snort.

Damian tensed. His sore fingers gripped the handle. He raised the bat behind him, swung and–

“Strike three! Let’s go get milkshakes!"


	21. Grocery Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: Steph and Cass helping Jason grocery shop

 “Wait.”

The cart stopped. Jason and Cass looked at Steph expectantly.

“You mean to tell me you wouldn’t date me?”

Cass shrugged. “Not my type.”

“Oh my GOD.”

Jason shook his head, moving the cart forward. He ignored the two in favor of the window meat.

“I’m a bad indie film waiting to happen! Blonde, cute, AND has daddy issues? Come on!”

“Still my best friend,” Cass consoled her.

“I can’t believe no one will date me,” said Steph glumly.

“I’ll date you,” Jason offered, pointing a ribeye cut out to the butcher.

“I don’t want your pity date!”

Jason smirked and Cass suddenly gave a short gasp, gripping Jason’s arm. Jason hissed, pulling her bone-crunching grip away. She allowed this, staring up at him impassively. “Jason, I want cheese nibs.”

Jason rubbed his arm. “So?”

“So go get them.”

“Why can’t you?”

She pointed to the location. Top of the shelf.

“Duh,” Steph pointed out.

Jason stepped back and narrowed his eyes at the two of them. “You do realize,” he said in an undertone, “that I am a twenty year old drug lord, a ex-murderer, a walking zombie, and in some stange parallel universal way am sure to have become a tentacle monster at some point.” He met her brown eyes pointedly. “Now, I’m going to ask you, and I want you to think real hard: do you still want me to get your cheese nibs?”

“Yeah.”

Jason sighed. “Grab the ribeye, I’ll be right back.”

“Get the family size!” Cass called after him.

“I will not support your addiction!”


End file.
